


Guile and Passion

by moonblossom



Series: Ink and Honour [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Corsetry, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Crossdressing, Crossdressing Sherlock, Friendship, Hand Job, Historical Inaccuracy, Humour, M/M, Oral Sex, Regency, Smut, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-25
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-10 01:05:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1152969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock decides to wear a rather unconventional costume to the Lestrades' Saint Valentines fancy dress ball. It has quite an impact on John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Guile and Passion

**Author's Note:**

> Fair number of historical creative liberties in this one, but it's all for a good cause ;) Please read the notes at the bottom for references, resources, and notes about why I made the choices I did.
> 
> Also, [against-stars](http://against-stars.tumblr.com) has drawn some absolutely gorgeous and sexy artwork for this fic. Please check it out [here](http://against-stars.tumblr.com/post/82731491557/sherlock-beautiful-and-predatory-followed-john), but keep in mind it's very NSFW.

John leant down, pressing his chest against Sherlock's back and brushing his lips across the top of Sherlock's ear. Sherlock was holding an elegant but frugal invitation card in one hand. His coat was off, his sleeve was pushed up, his forearm creamy and inviting.

Dragging his fingers across the pale expanse of skin, down toward Sherlock's own hand, John murmured gently, "While I am relieved to have you home again, do not think for one moment you are forgiven for abandoning me."

Sherlock laughed softly, the motion reverberating through John's chest.

"John, my love, I do think your argument would have more potency were you not currently draped over me like a doting limpet."

Teasingly, John nipped at Sherlock's earlobe as he peered at the invitation. "What's that then, a masked ball?"

"The Lestrades are holding one, to celebrate the feast of Saint Valentine. Love, laughter, debauchery, all that rubbish."

Carefully, John prised the invitation from Sherlock's fingers.

"Excellent. I shall have to find someone to invite."

Sherlock twisted in his chair, tilting his face up to meet John's, their lips a hair's breadth apart.

"You vex me, John. You vex me immensely."

***

February fourteenth dawned dim and quiet. Sherlock was off early, tending to some affair with a missing necklace. He had deemed it safe to go alone, and John, rather than feeling left out, welcomed the respite. He had his costume ready, such as it was. He would wear his dress uniform, complete with a hand-tooled leather domino mask purchased on the sly. He had debated growing out a moustache to further disguise his features, but decided against the ill-advised notion at the last minute.

As early evening approached, John washed slowly in the tin tub, enjoying his quiet, luxurious soak. He took every care as he shaved and performed his toilette, trimming his side whiskers into perfect symmetry, even getting out a newly woven pair of stockings to wear with his breeches. This new holiday was for lovers, after all, and in his head it was to be a private celebration of his reunion with Sherlock.

Idly, as he polished the buttons on his over-jacket, he mused about Sherlock's costume. He suspected Sherlock would go for something elaborate, what with his flair for the dramatic. No regular clothing and a simple mask would do. Aside from that conviction, John had little clue as to what Sherlock would be wearing.

As he clasped on his sword belt, he heard familiar voices carrying up the stairs. Sherlock had come home and was discussing something with Mrs. Hudson. There was another voice too carrying up the stairs, the soft tones of Miss Mary Morstan. Under Sherlock's advisement, John had taken her out on a few public and well-chaperoned dates, under the watchful and amused eye of poor Mrs. Hudson. She was a lovely, intelligent woman. Certainly never as lovely or intelligent as Sherlock, but she was pleasant company and helped diffuse the rumours about John's impropriety with Sherlock.

Most importantly though, she was well aware of what was going on behind the doors of 221 Baker Street and had no interests in John besides her own reputation. Sherlock claimed to have been entrusted with some sort of information about her past, something that guaranteed her discretion, and thus the arrangement was beneficial for all of them. Clearly Sherlock had taken it upon himself to invite Mary along as John's companion.

Eager to see what costume Sherlock had chosen for himself, John adjusted his outfit one last time and trotted down the stairs. When he got into the lounge, he could not control the fall of his features when he saw that Sherlock was still sporting his usual afternoon attire, a pair of snug white breeches and a black tail coat, navy waistcoat and white shirt beneath.

In an attempt to disguise his disappointment, he turned to Mary.

"I take it you are to be my date for the evening? Miss Morstan, what do you stand to gain from this arrangement?" John teased. He studied her face, her lips pursed in amusement and her lovely eyes wide with mirth, clearly visible beneath the mask.

"Please, at least in the comfort of your home, call me Mary. Sherlock has already given up any semblance of propriety!"

Mary was wearing a lovely dress in shades of vivid red and orange, and a delicate Venetian mask sculpted and gilded to look like flames. It contrasted well with her carefully arranged blonde ringlets, and gave off the impression of fire. Not so much a costume as a concept. It suited her temperament.

"John, you look rather dashing. I almost wish I had the privilege of taking you home tonight!" She grinned, playfully prodding Sherlock with one elbow. John flushed slightly as Sherlock glared sidelong at Mary.

"Mind your place, would you? I shall be the one disrobing John tonight, and I shall savour every moment of it." Even after all this time, Sherlock's words set John's heart to fluttering. It was at that point that he noticed the package under Sherlock's arm.

"Did you find a costume, then?" John inquired. The package was carefully wrapped in white linen, hiding the contents within.

"I do believe I did, with some assistance from Mary. Have a seat, and I shall be out shortly. I am afraid I must borrow your..." Sherlock looked to Mary and grinned as he continued. "Your whatever she is. I require a woman's delicate touch." They headed into the back parlour, no doubt for some semblance of privacy.

John was perplexed by Sherlock's statement, but merely shrugged. He settled onto the sofa and stared out the front window, watching the city come alive as the sun set.

***

"John?" Mary's voice was filled with barely-contained amusement, something that made John apprehensive. "He's ready!"

John glanced over at the clock on the mantel. They had been in there nearly an hour. What could possibly have taken so long?

His question was answered as Sherlock stepped silently out from the back parlour. Sherlock was costumed as a woman. An exceptionally fetching woman, at that. John gasped audibly.

The dress was black and yellow, clearly evoking the imagery of the humble honey bee. The bust and sleeves were of a rich black velvet, golden yellow piping across the front giving a vague, stylised impression of wings. The skirt was a rich buttery yellow silk with a black, gauze-like overlay with ornate leaves and vines floating about the hem. The sheer fabric hinted at the secret nature of what was underneath, and John felt his heart jumping into his throat.

As Sherlock made a coy half-turn, teasingly putting his ensemble on display, John felt his throat constricting, along with the front of his breeches. Sherlock, already so dashing in typical gentlemen's raiment, had no right to look so lovely in a gown. He was too tall, too virile. And yet, with the creamy skin of his throat and chest so on display, his angular, handsome features cleverly softened with the most delicate application of cosmetic powders, and the glittering pavé bee nestled in his rich dark curls, he so deftly treaded the balance of masculine and feminine that John was nearly overcome.

Impulsively, unheeding of their audience -- such as it was -- John raised himself off the chair in one smooth motion and stepped toward Sherlock. He wrapped his hands around that narrow waist, the unfamiliar feel of the feminine fabrics both shocking and arousing under his fingers. He moaned quietly and leaned up as though to kiss Sherlock.

Sherlock teasingly turned his head to one side, the very picture of shy innocence. His eyes shone bluer than normal, cleverly highlighted with some form of lamp-black or Turkish powder.

"John, please, not yet. I am not that sort of girl."

John groaned, running his lips along the exposed skin at the side of Sherlock's throat. "You, Sherlock, are not any sort of girl. Now stop this charade or we shall never make it to the party."

"My goodness, boys. I do think it is a good thing I am coming along as a sort of guardian!" Mary chided, attempting to muffle her laughter. "I cannot begin to imagine what you two would get up to without a proper lady's influence."

"Shame your imagination is so dull then, Mary." Sherlock grinned and stepped deftly away from John. "We get up to such _wonderful_ things."

Hissing quietly, John adjusted himself in his breeches and stepped to the front door. Those two would be the death of him.

***

The night was cool enough to warrant a carriage ride, even for the short distance. Also, Sherlock raised quite a fuss about not sullying the delicate silk slippers he had found to coordinate with his outfit. Somehow, the occasional glimpse of those feet, so familiar and so solid, in such fragile and feminine apparel was unreasonably erotic to John.

Sherlock seemed well aware of that fact. As they settled into the carriage, he sat facing John, rather than his usual place to the side, and his motives became immediately apparent as he began to slide that delicate slipper along the back of John's calf, toeing the edge of his boots. Mary slid in next to Sherlock, smirking as she glanced down towards their entangled feet.

John shifted uncomfortably in the carriage, folding his hands in his lap to disguise his burgeoning erection. Why did his uniform have such lamentably tight breeches? Thankfully the ride was short, and Sherlock did not have the opportunity to torment John further.

***

The Lestrades had truly outdone themselves, considering their meagre stipends and the relative unimportance of the holiday. There were swags of flowered calico and red-and-white bunting draped from the windows and the fireplace mantel. No doubt Molly's clever handiwork. Molly herself was wearing a lovely sun bonnet and carrying a basket full of spring blooms, costumed as a flower-seller. The dress did little to disguise her increasing girth, putting her bust on nearly alarming display. In lieu of a proper costume, Gregory had taken a similar route to John, sporting his uniform and a simple black mask.

As the threesome ventured into the party, John laid his hand carefully and pointedly on Mary's forearm. Sherlock's hand rested at the small of John's back, mostly hidden by the folds of his coat and the belt holding his blade in place. Molly rushed up to greet them. She shot a clever eye in Mary's direction and Sherlock grinned smugly. No more needed to be said. Molly was as trustworthy as she was observant. 

Gregory, thankfully, had chosen pointedly to ignore any contact between John and Sherlock, instead making a loud point of congratulating Miss Morstan and Doctor Watson on their courtship, no doubt intending to be overheard. John felt a subtle tension reverberate through Sherlock's hand and cautiously reached out to pat him comfortingly on the hip. Again, the shock of the feminine fabrics he found there sent a jolt through him, and he coughed to clear his throat.

Sherlock bowed theatrically, taking Molly's hand in his own and brushing his lips across it.

"Your decolletage is enchanting, Mrs. Lestrade." He stood up and smirked, and she rolled her eyes fondly at him.

Gregory, however, was not nearly so taken with Sherlock's antics. He glared pointedly at Sherlock's costume and raised a brow. "Were you not such a charming woman right now, Sherlock, I might slap you for being so forward with my wife."

"Is that a promise?" Sherlock's words were aimed at the officer of the law, but the heat in his gaze was reserved for John and John alone.

Smiling knowingly, Molly offered her arm to Mary. "May I show you around?"

Mary nodded eagerly and accepted a tour of their humble home, making polite conversation as Molly introduced her to the other guests. Sighing, Gregory followed, leaving John and Sherlock in relative quiet in a small, shadowed corner of the lounge. Sherlock took immediate opportunity of their moment of solitude to crowd himself ever closer against John.

"Sherlock, do be cautious. We cannot risk this."

Sherlock shrugged eloquently and John found himself distracted by the swell and fall of that expanse of pale, creamy flesh so well-framed by the rich black top of the gown. Suddenly he regretted ever leaving the house, the urge to press his lips to Sherlock's exposed skin was so nearly overpowering. Thighs trembling, John lowered himself onto one of the over-stuffed chairs.

"Please, Sherlock. Behave. Or I will refuse to be held responsible for any acts of lewdness or obscenity I may commit tonight."

"Promises, John." A slow smile crept across Sherlock's lips, made all the more lascivious by the thin layer of rouge painted across them. He had applied more cosmetics than a proper lady would have, and yet not nearly as much as the doxies down by the river would. The merest suggestion of filth and lewd knowledge. It was as if every single detail of Sherlock's costume had been calculated precisely to keep John in a heightened and furious state of arousal. Knowing Sherlock, that was likely the case.

John did his best to socialise, chatting with several of the guests, most of whom merely accepted Sherlock's costume as a regular part of his eccentricity. They did garner a few disapproving looks from some of Molly's elder relatives, but cross-dressing for a lark at parties was not entirely unheard of, and so nobody made more of a fuss than polite society indicated was necessary. For that, at least, John was greatly relieved.

After roughly one and a half hours, John had socialised with more than enough people and consumed enough elderberry wine, and was eager to return to Baker Street and show Sherlock exactly what he had wrought by choosing that particular costume. He carefully extricated himself from a painfully boring conversation with someone's matronly aunt and crossed the room to where Sherlock and Mary were giggling conspiratorially -- something that unnerved John greatly.

"Sherlock, I do believe I should like to return home and retire for the night. Shall I leave you here, or will that dress turn to rags at midnight? That would be quite the shame."

"Oh, shall I accompany you both, then?" Mary intervened, before Sherlock had opportunity to reply. "There are such awful rumours abounding regarding your reputations, it would be a shame for me not to be able to either confirm or deny for myself."

It took John a moment to process Mary's obtuse statement, but the moment he realised she was suggesting an audience for their evening's scheduled activities, his eyebrows rose nearly to his hairline.

Sherlock, thankfully, interrupted, his voice shushed and secretive. "Mary, dear, as much as we enjoy your company, my bedroom is neither the time nor the place for it."

Rather than look put out, she grinned impishly and nodded. "In that case, I think I should like to stay here. Molly is rather charming company. She has the most awful stories about you, Sherlock."

"All of them absolutely and painfully true, I assure you."

John watched the two of them sparring verbally, enjoying the banter in a disconnected way, rather as one would observe a cricket match. He had other things on his mind, namely getting that dress off of Sherlock and onto the floor. He drummed his fingers on his thigh, an excess of nervous energy coursing through his body, as Sherlock made polite but perfunctory excuses for their early departure. It spoke volumes about John's current distracted state that it was Sherlock bidding the farewells in his place.

After what felt like an interminable age, they made their goodbyes and stepped out into the street. Sherlock made to call a carriage for transport, but John shook his head. He was certain that in his heightened condition, he would be unable to keep his hands to himself in the dim privacy of a carriage, and there was a great risk that they would be caught. The walk would be brisk and invigorating, helping to cool John's feverish blood.

They kept a polite distance as they walked, at John's insistence. Sherlock kept brushing himself against John, no doubt under the guise of accidental contact, but John knew with utter certainty that he was doing it with full will and intention. He kept his mouth shut and quickened his pace. Certainly Sherlock would be feeling the chill soon, unused as he was to the thin fabrics and dainty weight of women's clothing. There was a small part of John that wished to linger, perhaps to teach Sherlock a lesson, but in the end his kind heart and eager groin both won out, and they were home in half the time it would have taken otherwise.

The moment they got inside, John crowded Sherlock up against the wall, pressing feverish kisses to that pale column of a throat. Already, his own arousal was evident, straining the front placket of his breeches, and as he leaned in, Sherlock let out a low chuckle.

"Captain Watson, perhaps you should unbuckle your sword belt..." His voice was husky and full of aroused mischief. Clumsily, John unbuckled himself and let the sword clatter to the floor before realising that Sherlock had not, in fact, been talking about his weapon.

As Sherlock pressed against him, John moaned softly, his face buried in the fragrant skin below Sherlock's ear. The bloody bastard had gone so far as to daub on the lightest amount of a decidedly feminine fragrance, redolent of violets hovering just above his own natural muskiness. The combination was a potent one, and John braced one arm against the wall to balance himself.

Panting, gasping for breath, John brought his hand down to Sherlock's groin, the heaviness he found there already beginning to distend the delicate fabric of the gown. Impulsively, further aroused by the unexpected contrast of soft silk under his fingers, John fisted his hand and gave Sherlock's tumescence a good, solid stroke. The fabric slid easily across the skin beneath, and the two men groaned in concert.

Sherlock let his head fall back against the wall with a soft thud, arching his hips up to meet John's palm. Likely, things would have progressed far further, right there in the open hallway, but a delicate cough interrupted them and snapped both men back to attention.

"Honestly, boys. Have you forgotten you live upstairs? I try to turn a blind eye to your carryings-on, but there are things a woman of my age should never have to be subjected to." Her words were stern, but her eyes betrayed her amusement.

John wished he could sink into the floor, his cheeks aflame with mortification and arousal. Sherlock did not even have the apparent decency to look embarrassed as he marched pointedly up the stairs. Murmuring his apologies, John followed, wincing as his breeches chafed with every step.

At the top landing, John paused to catch his breath, and let out a giggle.

"We are ridiculous, Sherlock. You make me ridiculous." He bent slightly, palms resting on his knees, still gasping for air. "Now get into your bloody bedroom before I manage to get us both arrested for indecency. And I am not even the one wearing the gown!"

With a grace and fluidity of movement John found patently unfair, Sherlock slid into his room -- their room, in all honesty, but they had to keep up appearances -- and paused in the middle of the floor, back to John.

"I might need..." he paused, trailing one long, elegant hand down the ribbons on the back of his gown, drawing John's attention straight to them, "a bit of assistance unlacing this."

Eager to comply, John stumbled forwards and tugged carefully at the knots. They came apart easily between his nimble fingers and the black velvet top of the gown loosened, dropping slightly off Sherlock's broad shoulders. Again, the contrast between the masculine and feminine struck John almost painfully, and his heart pounded erratically in his chest.

With a coy glance over his shoulder, Sherlock let the gown fall to the floor, puddling smoothly around his feet and exposing him fully before turning to face John properly.

John was not an inexperienced man. He had seen the foundation garments under a lady's wardrobe more than once in his life. But nothing could have prepared him for what now lay exposed in front of him. Sherlock was wearing a very modern-style corset against his bare skin, laced tightly around his sculpted torso. Rather than the plain white cotton of a proper stay, it was a rich yellow silk with black lace trim across the top and hips, chosen no doubt to to coordinate with the gown and to make the most of his decidedly unwomanly physique.

The corset was cinched just enough to nip in at Sherlock's waist, giving the merest impression of feminine softness around his hips. He also sported a scandalous pair of black mesh stockings that rose nearly to the top of his thighs, and his cock, flushed and still thickening, lay hidden in shadow, entirely unfettered by fabric of any sort. The mere idea that he had been traipsing about without any manner of chemise, breeches or bloomers all evening proved nearly too much for John to bear, and he found himself immeasurably thankful that Sherlock had kept his under-clothing a secret until they had arrived at home.

Groaning and adjusting his prick, John clambered onto the large bed they shared and rested himself against the headboard. Whether due to his shallow breathing or the sudden lack of blood to his head, he felt faint. Sherlock, beautiful and predatory, followed John, kneeling over him and straddling his legs.

Hungrily, John reached up and wrapped his hands around the narrowest part of Sherlock's waist, emphasised further by the foundation garment.

"Is it terribly uncomfortable?" John inquired, looking up at Sherlock. He studied the roseate flush across Sherlock's chest peeping out over the top of the corset, before drawing his gaze to Sherlock's face. His sharp eyes were heavily lidded with desire, his lips swollen and flushed beyond the cosmetics. Unable to bear it any longer, John brought one hand to the back of Sherlock's neck, threading his fingers through the loose curls there as he pulled their faces closer together.

"Not particularly, no..." Sherlock whispered, his lips so close John felt the heat of his words as he spoke. John parted his own, pressing them against Sherlock's as he moaned softly. He spoke, words murmured into the warm heat of Sherlock's mouth. He could taste the rose oil of the coloured lip salve Sherlock had used, and it only increased his furor.

"I should quite like it if you kept it on then... The stockings too..." His hand slid from the smooth silk at Sherlock's waist, down over the rough lace and the heated bare flesh of his hip, before finding its way to the delicate tops of the stockings. Gently, he slipped one finger-tip beneath the stocking, running it along Sherlock's skin. They were held in place with ribbon garters that would no doubt leave a mark on Sherlock's pale thighs later, and John's cock twitched eagerly at the notion of exploring Sherlock's body afterwards, studying the evidence of their lasciviousness as keenly as Sherlock studied everyone and everything.

Sherlock pressed another kiss to John's keen mouth, exploring with his tongue as his hands slid down to John's chest. John moaned, arching up into the kiss as Sherlock deftly undid the buttons across his uniform's jacket and pushed it down off John's shoulders. Without breaking the kiss, Sherlock loosened the front placket of John's breeches and John groaned in relief as his erection sprung free. Sherlock's hands slid up under John's linen shirtfront, shockingly cool against his feverish skin.

Unable to focus, mind clouded with desperate arousal, John dragged his hands over every part of Sherlock he could reach, save his cock, now fully hard and jutting away from his body in a thoroughly salacious manner. This, he pointedly avoiding, running his palms instead in long strokes across Sherlock's arse cheeks, thighs, and corseted frame. Sherlock whined, readjusting his looming stature over John and grinding himself against the coarse fabric of John's shirt in desperation.

John pulled his mouth away from Sherlock's collar bone and smirked as Sherlock widened his eyes in frustration. "Now you see how I have felt all evening, you impatient sod."

"Be merciful, John." Sherlock's voice was pleading, frayed with yearning. John sympathised, his own erection needful and throbbing. He looked downwards, eyes drawn to Sherlock's prick. The prepuce was fully retracted, the bulbous head exposed and glistening with pearly fluid, and suddenly all John wanted was to have that gorgeous staff in his mouth.

He gazed up at Sherlock, the need clear on his face. Sherlock, as always, read John's intent fully and clearly. With a shuddering moan he leant forward, one hand guiding his prick to John's parted lips and the other bracing himself against the headboard. He was effectively caging John in place with his limbs, and John could think of no place in the world he would rather be.

Breathlessly, John opened his mouth and welcomed Sherlock's blood-hot cock. He traced the head once, twice, with the tip of his tongue, before laving the slit, lapping up every drop of fluid he found there. Sherlock groaned, shifting his weight and angling his hips in such a manner as to drive his length deeper into John's mouth, and John could do nothing but welcome him eagerly. 

He moaned around the thick mouthful as Sherlock slid nearly to the back of his throat. John inhaled deeply, his nose buried in the fine, dark hairs at the base of of Sherlock's erection. The smell was so musky and appealing, so wholly masculine and familiar. As he began to bob his head, the soft skin of Sherlock's shaft sliding thrillingly across his tongue, the lace at the bottom of the corset brushed John's forehead, reminding him insistently of its presence.

As he rolled his tongue along the underside of Sherlock's prick, flicking his tongue over the fraenulum in a way that had Sherlock trembling, John brought one hand down to squeeze the base of his own throbbing need. He refrained from indulgent touches, focusing instead on the glorious heft of Sherlock on his tongue. He pursed his lips, tightening a ring around the shaft, and slowly suckled the length of it.

Sherlock groaned, gripping John's hair in a familiar way, a signal between them that his climax was rapidly approaching. Eager, John continued to lap and suck and kiss at the head while his hand wrapped tightly around the shaft and stroked Sherlock rapidly, his fingers brushing against his own lips with every thrust.

John released his grip on his own erection and brought his other hand up to cup Sherlock's plums, tight and swollen as they were. He rolled them carefully in his palm as he fluttered his tongue rapidly across the head, and felt them withdraw further up against Sherlock's body. The fingers in his hair tightened, and with one sharp bellow, Sherlock was spilling onto his tongue, bitter and filthy and delicious.

Moaning, lips pursed tight around the head so as not to miss a drop, John swallowed wave after wave, milking Sherlock's cock as though his life depended on it. Trembling, making soft gasping little moans, Sherlock withdrew his softening cock, and John could not help lick it one last time, an impish gleam in his eye. Sherlock, over-stimulated, bucked against him, once again rubbing the roughened lace across John's cheek.

He was desperate now, his own cock twitching visibly away from his body with each beat of his frenzied heart. His shirt clung to him, damp with sweat, and John writhed against the top of the bed.

Sherlock, looking for all the world like some debased, fallen angel from a painting, descended on him, skillfully extricating John from his tangled, soaked shirt before taking his cock in hand. The contact was electric, and John gasped. It would not be long, not with Sherlock's clever fingers stroking him, sliding the loose skin around his shaft up and down, rolling it around the head in such a manner.

As Sherlock stroked him, he peppered John's cheeks and throat with light, dry kisses. They were somehow chaste, innocent, in the midst of their debauched lovemaking, and all the more erotic for it. Just as John had acclimated to the light touches of Sherlock's lips, the slow, gentle motion of his hand, Sherlock redoubled his pace and grazed his teeth across John's sternum with enough eager violence that it would no doubt leave a mark for weeks to come.

Thrusting his hips upwards, bucking into the exquisite tightness of Sherlock's hand, John felt the pressure of climax building rapidly within him. As his groin tightened, he made the mistake of opening his eyes. Sherlock was staring down at him, those impossible moonstone eyes piercing deep into John's core, and he was overcome. Unable to control himself, he closed his eyes again and cried out as his body tautened, back arching and cock twitching violently. The orgasm was an exceptionally potent one, overwhelming, roaring through him and shattering hours of pent-up desperation. Sherlock continued to stroke him through it, coaxing out every last drop.

Gasping, John opened his eyes and let his head fall back against the headboard. Sherlock still hovered above him, grinning pridefully. Evidence of their depravity was everywhere. John's own spunk, thick and glistening, lay splattered across the pale fabric of Sherlock's corset, some having dripped down as far as the delicate mesh of his stockings. John caught his breath and frowned, running his thumb across the cooling fluid on Sherlock's creamy thigh.

"What a shame, I have ruined it."

Sherlock cupped John's chin in his hand, tilting John's gaze up towards his face.

"It is no bother, I am quite done with the outfit."

John sighed softly as he ran one hand up Sherlock's back, fingers tracing the criss-crossing strings at the curve of his back. "I confess, I was rather hoping it might make a recurring appearance. Only in the confines of these rooms, mind you. I do not think my constitution could handle seeing you out of the house in these garments ever again."

"Then I shall have to experiment on the best way to clean ejaculatory fluids from silk," Sherlock chuckled, "for I suspect bringing it to a washerwoman would start more rumours."

"Felicitations, Sherlock. Only you could make that sound so erotic."

Sherlock winked, the utter cheek of it sending a gentle pulse of excitement through John's exhausted body.

"Not yet, Sherlock. I am not as young as I once was."

"Unlace me then, John, and lie with me." Sherlock rolled over, falling onto the far side of the bed, and began wriggling out of the ruined stockings. With reverence, John loosened the strings at the back of the corset enough for Sherlock to loosen the clasps at the front and let it tumble to the floor. Sherlock fell back onto the bed, and John traced his fingers along the indentations the corset had left across Sherlock's spine. There it was, laid bare before him; unequivocal, physical evidence of their wickedness. And yet, John felt not a single bit of shame or regret. They were together, they were happy, and nothing they were doing in here could harm anyone else.

"John, please stop pontificating, finish undressing, and come to bed."

Smiling, John did as he was bid.

**Author's Note:**

> Valentine's Day was not really celebrated as we know it until the Victorian era, but it was beginning to catch on as a fad for new lovers in the Georgian and Regency periods. People may have thrown small dinner parties, or given hand-made cards to their lovers. Likely there would not have been parties as elaborate as the one laid out here, but I've never claimed to strive for perfect accuracy with this series. If you'd like to read more about Valentine's Day in the Regency era, [this site has some good resources](http://www.kristenkoster.com/2012/02/a-regency-round-up-on-valentines-day/).
> 
> For the curious (or anyone keen to draw anything from this fic hint hint yes I am shameless), here is what inspired Sherlock's unconventional wardrobe choice. It wasn't entirely unheard of for people to cross-dress at a costume party, but it was still considered relatively improper and mostly done by people who were already on the fringes of proper society, and occasionally by people who were so far above everyone else that they felt they could flaunt propriety without causing a scandal. Feel free to decide for yourself which group Sherlock has placed himself in.
> 
> [The Gown](http://www.metmuseum.org/Collections/search-the-collections/107941?rpp=20&pg=42&ft=*&deptids=8&when=A.D.+1800-1900&what=Dresses&pos=833).  
> [The Corset](http://www.metmuseum.org/Collections/search-the-collections/82651?rpp=60&pg=2&ft=corsets&pos=74).
> 
> While the dress is spot-on accurate (it's dated from 1818, and this story takes place in 1817), the corset is actually quite inaccurate for the Regency period, it's much later (Victorian, 1880). Regency stays are exceptionally boring and would definitely not have worked on a torso like Sherlock's since they were made to uplift and emphasise the bust, to suit the high waist and open throat of the dresses of the era, so I took some creative liberty. Especially since it matched the gown and the bee theme so well.
> 
> Also, aside from the canon nod, bees were often [associated with Napoleon](http://regencyredingote.wordpress.com/2010/10/22/the-bees-of-napoleon/), so you can also view Sherlock's outfit as yet another way of subtly fucking with and confusing John (since in this AU he fought at Waterloo), if you'd like ;)


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